


don't get too comfortable, sunshine.

by harscrow



Series: Death Smiles At Us All [1]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, M/M, Organized Crime, Roman POV, mention of murder, mention of prostitution, mob!boss Roman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 11:18:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6903667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harscrow/pseuds/harscrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boss takes his time to evaluate those words and the man who spoke them. So damn close that Roman can feel him breathing on his mouth, he notices no smell of alcohol, just a vivid spark into neon blue eyes. And parted lips sinfully wet, demanding to be bitten, smashed by kisses. It would be easy, it would be quick and rough and a collision of untamable forces.<br/>“Roman!” His cousin’s voice brings him back to the moment.<br/>He turns to meet Jimmy’s concerned look. Just then, he realizes customers are staring and chatting at the show that’s being played out.</p><p>/// If you've read my fic "Big Bad Handsome Man" and started wondering how Dean and Roman met, this is the answer ///</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't get too comfortable, sunshine.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kawx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kawx/gifts).



Glitzy chandeliers hang from the pitch-black ceiling, unfolding like shimmery crystal rain above the customers' heads. Attractive dancers are stripping along the floodlit catwalk situated in the middle. Others are doing the same, clung to steel poles slightly illuminated by blueish spotlights. Everything is in motion, gloom and glow fighting to conquer each other to the rhythm of a lustful beat.

 

Roman's eyes roam over The Rabbit Hole, a very profitable nightclub where gentlemen look for fancy cocktails and the company of other fine gentlemen. Actually nothing but a pulsing, vital particle of his whole dirty, powerful dominion, and yet it can be said to be one of his most effective resources sometimes. Like now, for example, since Roman has every intention of exploiting to his own favor, his soon-to-be business partner's passion for twinks.

 

Approaching the more quiet spot where the middle aged man's been sitting for a few minutes, Roman gives the boys chosen for the task a hint with his hand. Smooth as graceful felines, they comply with the boss' orders, sliding from his back to Graham Burnett's side. He startles at first, surprised by the company, but doesn't hesitate to put his paws on them once he sees Roman getting close as well. Roman has never understood what's the point in showing off something that doesn't actually belong to you, so he can't help but scoff at that with a smirk that Burnett mistakes for sympathetic indulgence.

 

"Sweet butts these two have..." The man states, giving those young asses a couple of solid gropes.

 

"Oh I know, Graham." Roman agrees, taking place in front of him. "It's not to be said I don't know how to treat my friends."

 

"Uh. We're already friends, then?" Burnett snickers, his Adam's apple bobbing in such an annoying way that Roman can't help but think it would be quite pleasurable watching it stop once for all.

 

He frowns upon men who believe they can hold a candle to him because of the expensive suit they wear, as if the transient prestige of some piece of clothing could ever be equal to being molded as the future boss of the Reigns clan since childhood. How can some earthly parvenu compete with a man shaped as God himself? Men like that, persisting in the sin of hubris in front of his Family's power, are usually the ones that have to fall like flies when they start pushing their luck too far. Roman learned that lesson a long time ago, when his father was alive and he still was a young lad. 

 

A sweet summer breeze was blowing gently that day, they were having a big garden party and he was just eight years old. He remembers the crimson red splashes of blood all over his mama's beautiful bushes of white roses as if it was yesterday, the hauntingly fascinating picture indelible in his mind. Roman had always been such a good boy that he cried for those damned souls headed straight to hell, his mother hurrying to carry him away from the gore when it was already too late. She was singing a lullaby, nothing more than a melodious humming poured affectionately into his ear.

 

He stares straight into the other man's challenging eyes now, his hands clasped in a confident pose on the table dividing the two of them. "It's better we're on the same page here. Want me to consider you... _something else_?" He asks, a not so veiled threat behind his taunting tone. "Because I will, if you're planning on obstructing, mocking or underrating me." He hisses, each and every one of those contingencies engraved with cutting calmness.

 

Roman may need Graham Burnett's services in that particular moment, but surely Graham Burnett would like to sleep soundly at night too. The menace seems to rouse the man's caution, because he slowly draws his hands back from the boys and shifts a bit on his seat, a more serious grimace on his face. "I'd never disrespect you or any part of your family, sir. That's for sure!" Words rush from his tongue, impelled by an ill-concealed trace of panic, as if he suddenly remembered who he's talking to.

 

"Good to know." Cocking his head to the side, Roman gives the other man a bright smile, not less menacing in all its white perfection than a pointed gun. "Now, enjoy Logan and Adam's company, we can ta-"

 

The unmistakable sound of offensive eruption, accompanied by security yelling and some guys falling while pushed aside, makes Roman's veins flood with alert. He jumps off his seat, right hand promptly drawing his Glock from the shoulder holster hidden under his jacket. Burnett and the twinks nervously take a few steps back.

 

His eyes searching the scene from afar, Roman catches a guy he never saw before hitting one of the security operators in the face in an attempt of escape. A good blow, probably by some filthy drunkard who wanted to go down the Rabbit Hole, though. He looks at him quite intrigued, wondering where the fuck the poor bastard thinks he's going. Closing in rapidly on that little situation, Roman points his gun at the intruder, making him froze in place. "Don't move."

 

The man's blue eyes widen in a way that Roman judges as quite cryptic. The young man, seemingly high on shrooms, doesn't look scared by the weapon or his intimidating presence and yet chooses to obey and stay still, his hands up and a visible couple of bruises on the left side of his face.

 

"This scumbag barged in here, boss." The head of security cuts in with a vexed tone, blood dripping from his swelling lip. Thomas Mulligan, his badge says.

 

"I can see that for myself, don't you think?" Roman snorts back at him, breaking eye contact with the trespasser. "What the hell do I pay you for?! To give me reports about people infringing my authority or to keep that from happening? Six feet six and you ain't shit against this one?! You're dismissed."

 

Mulligan doesn't whine, which is good for his own sake. He simply withdraws, clenched fists trembling.

 

"Listen, man. I can explain." The stranger says, wiggling his head right and left. "If only these _assholes_ had let me pass!" He yells, nodding at a couple of glaring enforcers at his back. Especially Mulligan. 

 

Roman growls, clawing at the guy's throat to slam him against a nearby column with no hesitation and a dull thud. He can almost see the air rushing off the other's lungs. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He thunders, gun barrel pressed hard against the stranger's stubbly cheek. "This is my place and I won't tolerate any violation. I don't care if you're drunk, I don't care if you're high and you don't even know your name. You don't get in my club if you're not on the list."

 

"You... I was looking for you!" The man coughs, before staring back at Roman with unusual courage. As if unconscious that a little slip of hand could blow a hole into his face. His rebel, pretty face.

 

The boss takes his time to evaluate those words and the man who spoke them. So damn close that Roman can feel him breathing on his mouth, he notices no smell of alcohol, just a vivid spark into neon blue eyes. And parted lips sinfully wet, demanding to be bitten, smashed by kisses. It would be easy, it would be quick and rough and a collision of untamable forces.

 

"Roman!" His cousin's voice brings him back to the moment. He turns to meet Jimmy's concerned look. Just then, he realizes customers are staring and chatting at the show that's being played out.

 

The boss regains some lucidity and, with his best impression of a tranquil owner, lowers the weapon to explain to the bunch of meddlers: "Don't worry, people. It's just some buffoon who wanted to crash the party. You can resume your business now."

 

While they go back to dancing, drinking, or whatever the fuck they were doing before their nosy nature got better of them, Roman gives more important orders to his most beloved henchmen. "Jimmy, go tell Burnett I'll catch up with him as soon as I've finished with this asshole. Jey, put some of _our_ men at all the entrances, in case this was just a diversion."

 

And still, he doesn't let go of the strong grip on the stranger's neck.

 

"I'm not a buffoon!" The mysterious guy retorts, darting a fierce glance at Roman. He's so _alive_ in his insolent behavior, so savagely true in his panting. Beautiful, in a way only a broken soul on fire can be. "I'm Dean Ambrose!"

 

It sounds like whiskey after sex, that's what Roman thinks but doesn't say. "Doesn't ring any bell."

 

Shoving him forward, the boss incites the guy to walk slowly, gun pointed at his nape. He pushes him towards the set of stairs leading to the floor above, patience running short. Behind the closed door of Roman's office, he sheathes the Glock and strips Ambrose of his leather jacket, looking for any weapon or mic in his possession.

 

"You may wanna do a strip search too?"

 

Incredulous, Roman frowns at him. Responding to that flirty request with a silent palming of Dean's body, he barely refrains from losing his mind on that lean, muscled figure. That thin waist, those perfect, long thighs covered in denim... It's not like he hasn't seen or had the most beautiful men and women in town. And yet, somehow, they all pale in comparison to the scoundrel in front of him. They all seem fake, unoriginal.

 

"Take your time, buddy. I'm having quite a good time here."

 

"Shut the fuck up. I can have you pummeled and kicked out of here." And Roman seriously asks himself what stopped him from doing that immediately. Part of the response lies in Ambrose's gravel voice that's playing with his rising lust.

 

"I'm still here, though. Let's sit and have a talk, uh?"

 

The other man is baffled, breached at the basis of his own essence. No stranger ever dared to address him like that, like he's just _Roman_ and not a Reigns. Being that something he's not used to, it makes him feel uncomfortable, makes him want to snap and beat the proper respect out of that guy. And yet, butchering a piece of art so unique would be on the scant list of crimes he's not prone to committing. 

 

Shrouded in the dim-light of an almost clinically orderly office, Roman orbits Dean like a bird of prey instead, the heels of his polished Santoni shoes clacking in the silence, his dark eyes meeting bright blue ones in a duel. What chance has a torpedo-boat of conquering the whole sea? Roman still believes he may have a few. "This is not how it works around here. Do you know who I am?" The question vibrates in a deep, threatening way murmured against Dean's ear. A flick of his tongue and Roman could toy with that shiny little ring on his lobe. The sole realization makes a quiver run down his spine.

 

"I know exactly who you are. 's why I'm here." It's the quick reply he gets, from a man whose shoulders have not crouched in compliance a single time but whose neck has just arched slightly toward who's standing behind him.

 

It's too much. Roman understands he's bitten off more than he can chew when he feels his own heart striving to burst out of his ribcage. So he draws away before Dean's hand can reach his jaw to keep him close. Intimacy with a complete stranger is a risky paradox he should not indulge into.

 

"You know who I am." He pants, facing him again. When did his breath go missing? "And you still have the nerve to storm in here? Interrupt my business? Make a fool of me in front of my clients?" Roman's snarling swells in a heated crescendo. "The fuck you think you are?" ' _To do this to me?_ '

 

"Modesty isn't one of your virtues, I see." Dean chuckles. He fucking chuckles, the bastard. Roman would like to hate those cute dimples, or at least punch himself in the face and get it together. 

 

"No, but _this_ is." Pulling out his gun one more time, Roman hastens to dig the barrel into Dean's flat stomach. His other hand is occupied in pulling him closer by the small of his back. Dean clings rashly to his biceps, tensed up, gasping. With the right perspective it can almost look like they're about to share a slow dance. The boss feels the warmth of Dean's fingertips radiate through the sleeves of his Armani jacket, blandish his skin. "As you can see, whatever it is that you're seeking from me, I'm not particularly inclined to discuss it." Roman whispers, brooding.

 

Dean's glossy eyes are still lit up with pride, but his damn open mouth is simply begging to be fucked. "I know what people look for around here. I can strip an' I can do _anything_ else. I have a good resistance, I can take a lot... a lot of pain, even two cocks at once. Can get whipped, manhandled or do all of that in return."

 

Roman bites away a curse, his own dick awakened by a jolt of expectation. "Are you asking me to hire you as a whore?"

 

"'m asking you to pick me as whatever you please. Make me join the ranks of your pretty dancers here. 'm clean. 'm good. Try me maybe?" The man flirts, teasing, sticking his tongue out between his teeth.

 

There's something about him altogether that is so entrancing it itches and hurts and burns through the entirety of Roman's body. The way Dean's voice hisses softly between lips and tongue is hypnotizing to say the least. Struggling to abandon his clouded state of mind, Roman hardens his grasp on the Glock's grip, hanging on to the only object in that room recalling him who he is: a murderer, an emperor with bloody hands, bloody crown, bloody clothes, bloody properties, bloody everything. Drenched in danger and death and darkness, that's what he is, not a smitten lover desperate for a fuck.

 

He's angry at himself more than he is at Ambrose. Feeling like Ulysses at the mercy of the Sirens' song, he unfortunately hasn't got any mast to be tied to. "Give me a reason to trust you. How do I know you're not an undercover cop sent to pry into my business?" He contrives to ask that, a couple of nudges shaking his pistol.

 

"Would an undercover cop do this?" Dean asks, impish intentions crooking his smile as he challenges his fate to win the kiss that's been lingering there for a while now.

 

Roman sinks into it, ravenous. It's wet and intense, a thrilling locking of teeth and tongues. Becoming rapidly addicted to the way Dean tastes in his mouth, Roman abandons himself to gluttony, greed and lust all at once. He wants wants wants, so he takes takes takes. Dean is anything but compliant, though, his grunts a declaration of war, his bites good weaponry.

 

A low snicker gurgles into Roman's throat as he abruptly breaks the kiss, his left hand caressing Dean's loins and the Glock quietly drawing arabesques of doom all over his abs. "You would let your life hang by a thread just to get a job?" His voice is husky, tampered with liquid, golden delight. "Tell me the truth or I swear to God I'll have no remorse unloading this gun into your guts."

 

Dean is visibly taken aback but he doesn't falter when he spills it. "I need protection. I angered someone, I need to be safe. Let me a valuable asset to you, any way y-"

 

With a questioning look, Roman pushes him away, breaking their precarious balance. "Who. What have you done?"

 

"Hunter Hearst Helmsley. Kinda stole something from him." Dean confesses, tilting his head, a little pout on his face as to say 'Shit happens. I messed with a crime lord so now he wants to kill me. Big deal!'.

 

That name is the last one Roman was expecting to hear. "How in the hell did you manage to steal something from him?" He questions, curious. As much as he doubt such a thing could happen, he'd pay big money to see Hunter humiliated that way. 

 

"Well, it seemed like a brilliant move back then. You know he runs like... 's whole underground fighting thing? I challenged the man, then knocked the fuck outta 'im." Dean says, throwing a few punches in the air, which makes an interested grin pop up on Roman's lips. "Stole his honor, in a way. I may have said something very unwise, too. About, uh... dick sucking."

 

Roman needs a couple of seconds to elaborate a satisfying mental image. That scruffy-looking sexy motherfucker really succeeded in realizing what's been his own personal dream since always? "You're telling me that you kicked the old fucker's ass and then told him to suck it?"

 

"I guess, yeah." Dean shrugs. 

 

That's when Roman loses himself in a pleased, brief laughter. Either this guy is full of shit, or Hunter really did finally get a proper beating. "I want to give you the benefit of the doubt." He ponders, his sense of alert relaxing a bit. Surprisingly, Ambrose may not be that bad of an acquaintance. 

 

"What doubt? I'm telling the truth, man. Who do you think did _this_ to my face?" Almost yelling, Dean seems a bit outraged by Roman's statement. He turns his head a little to the side to show off his bruises.

 

Roman shushes him, a hand pressed on those mischievous lips. "Enough. I own an apartment in this same building. Some of my strippers live there. You're gonna join them, so they can keep an eye on you while I enquire into your private life, _Dean Ambrose_. If I find out you lied to me..." 

 

"I didn't. I never will."

 

"It's best for you if you don't. Let's go back downstairs, now. I got business to handle. You can have all the fun you want, but I must find you near the counter by the end of the night."

 

"Got something in mind, boss?" Dean suggests with a wink.

 

Still unnerved by the way the other man keeps showing no deference to authority, Roman can't help but tug at his reddish curls. With his neck exposed and that devilish smirk, it's written all over Dean's face that he knows he's won already. Son of a bitch, holding his own in the lion's den and not getting slaughtered for that. It must be some kind of trick, like he's been fucking Lady Luck or something.

 

"I just want to set the record straight about our deal. _Don't get too comfortable, sunshine_."

**Author's Note:**

> I am so nervous about this! Undisciplined Dean was so fun to write tho. lol


End file.
